


A Strange Twist of Fate

by ModernDayBard



Series: Other Way Round [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 07:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17484050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayBard/pseuds/ModernDayBard
Summary: Re-posted from my FF account--not stolen.Dr. Strange gives up the Time Stone, but for a different life. Those left in the half-empty universe are determined to do what they can to save or avenge those stolen away, and a certain Friendly, Neighborhood Spiderman refuses to be left behind. (Continuation of 'Other Way Round' Chapter 4: Father.)





	1. 'Flesh Will Melt'

_**Previously:** _

_Scrabbling and scrambling sounds caught his attention then, and he looked up to see the rest of their allies had picked themselves up and were converging on the three earthlings with dazed, confused expressions that echoed the question that was hammering around in Peter’s skull, too: What now?_

_Suddenly, antennae-girl’s black eyes widened in something like fear. “Something’s happening.”_

_Then she just crumbled, vanishing into dust, and Peter choked back a horrified cry, surging to his feet and swaying._

_ What’s happening? _

_“Quill.”_

_Peter’s head snapped around and watched the bald, muscled guy also crumble. The teen could feel himself shaking now with horror, confusion, and fear in one stomach-turning sensation. The other Peter only managed a weak “Oh, man...” as he followed his teammates, and it felt harder and harder to breathe._

_Had Thanos gotten the other stones? Was it over? Peter turned to the one person who seemed to know what was going on with the weird rock thingies, only to see that the wizard was dissolving like the Guardians._

_Dr. Strange must’ve seen the question he didn’t have the air or will to voice, because he held his gaze and gave as much of an answer as he could: “It had to be this way. We’re in the endgame now.” Then, he couldn’t talk anymore, but it seemed like Peter could hear two more, unspoken words in that final gaze: I’m sorry._

_He wanted to be home—he wanted this to be some sort of vivid nightmare he was dreaming on the bus—he wanted someone to tell him that everything was going to be alright. But it wasn’t—was it? The wrongness of it was washing over him, choking him. Worse, a sense of dread was twisting in his damaged gut—not his Spidey-Sense, something deeper, more frightening._

_He turned, then, to the only person who was any sort of comforting presence on this alien place, only to see that his mentor was standing too still, too stiff._

_“Mr. Stark?”_

_The adult turned slowly, carefully, and a few wisps of dust were already peeling away. “I don’t feel so good,” he muttered, half to himself as if he wasn’t really aware that Peter was there._

_ No! Nononononononono! _

_There were only a few feet between the two, but with one injured and one dissolving, it took a monumental effort on both parts to close the gap. A heavy hand crashed onto Peter’s uninjured arm, with more of Tony Stark’s weight behind it than the older hero had probably intended, but at least his gaze was focused again, grounded in the present, and fixed on the horrified face in front of him._

_“‘S going to be alright,” he lied, and the lie an adult was supposed to tell a kid when everything was going wrong fell on deaf ears, because the teen had seen too much to believe it any more, however much he wanted to._

_Peter clung to the man in front of him desperately, holding on as tight as he could, as if that somehow would stop and reverse what was happening in sickening slow motion. “Don’t go,” he pleaded, voice thick with tears he’d begun to shed without realizing. “Please, don’t go. I don’t want you to go—I don’t want you to go!” He was begging now, babbling, but he couldn’t stop._

_Suddenly, he’d fallen to his knees, unable to hold the both of them upright much longer, and the man in his arms was almost gone, seemingly unable to speak. Peter shook his head, still crying, when an even worse thought struck him: If Thanos had done this (and who else could?), then he’d only been able to because Dr. Strange had given up the Time Stone… to save his life._

_ This is all my fault. _

_“I’m sorry,” he wailed, just as what was left of his mentor crumbled away, leaving him alone, devastated, curled up on himself as his whole frame shook with terrified and guilt-laden sobs._

_ This is all my fault. _

_If he’d stayed on the bus, he wouldn’t have been there at all._

_ This is all my fault. _

_If he’d gone home when Mr. Stark told him to, the older hero would still be alive._

_ This is all my fault. _

_If he’d been just a little bit faster, gotten the Gauntlet off of Thanos’ hands, this never could have happened._

_ This is all my fault. _

_If he’d been a better fighter—If he’d done something different—If he’d been good enough—_

_If he hadn’t let it all slip through his fingers…_

_Gone._

* * *

Peter never could say afterwards how long he’d spent doubled over in that grief and guilt, letting out sobs that shook his whole frame. It felt like hours, may have only been minutes, could have been a day for all he knew.

But however long he it was, his energy and emotion were not yet completely spent when he felt a hand on his shoulder, heard a half-mechanical voice say, “We need to leave.”

Peter jumped, turning to see that he was not actually alone on the desiccated planet: the blue cyborg girl, at least, hadn’t faded away like everyone else. In his overwrought state, still horrified by what he’d witnessed, overwhelmed by the thought it was his fault, desperate for some kind of comfort, and now, incredibly relieved that he was not the only living being left in the universe, Peter clung to his one remaining ally.

Blue Girl froze, stiffened in his grasp, and seemed unsure on how to go about detangling herself from him. She settled for repeating herself. “We need to leave. We won’t do any good here, and you need medical attention.”

Her voice was flat, her tone matter-of-fact, and it served to ground Peter just a little. He backed up, glancing away, but closed his eyes when they came to rest on the last spot Mr. Stark had been…

“You’re from Terra, right?” the girl asked, and Peter turned back to her, brain still trying to regain some semblance of normal functionality.

“Queens,” he mumbled automatically, but at her blank look, he swallowed and spoke again. “I mean, Earth.” Then, because some lessons are deeply ingrained into the psyche, he held a trembling hand out to her. “I’m Peter Parker, by the way.”

Her dark eyes bored into his, ignoring the out stretched hand. “Nebula,” she said at last, before turning away. “My sister’s friends have a ship, and it might still be working. Should have some medical supplies for a patch job, too. I’ll drop you back off before I go.”

Peter hesitated a moment, unsure if he wanted to stay with what remained of Mr. Stark or flee as far as possible, never looking back. But Nebula’s blunt, practical manner gave him something to focus on besides the utter hopelessness of the situation, and he latched on to that, scrambling after her as best he could without jostling his arm or abdomen too much.

“Go where?” he asked when he caught up with her, and she gave him that long stare again as they walked.

“To kill Thanos.”

She spoke it evenly, like it was an indelible fact, but there was something taut behind it. Anger? Grief? Hate? All seemed appropriate, under their circumstances, but still…

“Alone?”

She opened the hatch of a strange-looking space ship and headed inside without looking to see if he followed. Which he did, passing by technology and devices that, under different circumstances, he would have been drooling over, itching to take apart and see how they worked.

Nebula pointed at a bench while she rummaged for something in what Peter could only assume was a storage bin. Obediently, he sat. He didn’t think he could’ve stayed on his feet much longer, anyway. She grabbed something, then crossed over to him. It looked, well, alien, but he assumed it was some of the medical supplies she’d mentioned. At least, he hoped so.

She hesitated, frowning between the device and him, and he began to grow nervous. Finally she spoke. “I hope this works on Terrans. Quill was half-Terran, so it should, but…”

Peter reached out for it, and she handed it to him. It was actually a case much like a first-aid kit, now that he looked at it, and the label for various things did appear to be in English. Somehow. He grabbed a few bottles and things he thought might help, but truth be told, he knew he had to get to a real hospital, and soon.

While he sorted himself out, Nebula got the ship launched, Earth’s coordinates plugged in, and the autopilot set. She then came back to where he was, frowning like she wasn’t sure what to say or do next. Well, that made two of them.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Of all the things to break the silence with, that was the one Peter least expected to hear, and it must’ve shown on his face as he looked up at her. She shifted, uncomfortable, as if being nice was new to her, and it suddenly struck Peter that, in his shock over losing Mr. Stark, he may have actually uttered some of his self-remonstration out loud.

And she’d heard it.

Somehow, though, he didn’t have the energy to be embarrassed. “The wizard guy gave up the Time Stone to save me…that kind of makes it my fault, right?”

Nebula glared, and she seemed a lot more comfortable with a scowl on her face than with any kind of concern. “Yeah, well my sister gave up the Soul Stone to save me, so I’d say that makes it their fault for being sentimental idiots.”

Her sister. There’d been talk about someone else during that desperate struggle to get the Gauntlet, something about someone dying… that Gamora person there’d been some confusion about when the guardian people had first show up?

Nebula huffed in irritation, glancing around like the ship made her uncomfortable. “It’ll take us a while to get to Terra in this heap of junk. Get some rest while you can, kid.”

Peter really didn’t want to sleep—was afraid of what he’d dream—but he could tell his strange ally wanted some privacy, so he laid down and closed his eyes, listening as she moved back into the cockpit area.

Despite his wishes, sleep claimed him quickly.


	2. 'Are You Yet Living'

Nebula sat, curled up in one of the chairs in the cockpit, watching space unfold around them as they traveled. Truthfully, she didn’t need to be in there—the ship wouldn’t require manual control until they reached Earth and had to land, or unless they encountered any kind of debris or asteroid field, but it was easier to be there and look out than to wander the ship and see traces of her sister and the Guardians scattered all around.

Still, the urge to glance over her shoulder, to go back in there, hammered at her, and she knew why.

The kid.

True, she didn’t know much about Terran biology or life cycle, but one only had to watch how he carried himself in the aftermath of everything falling apart, watch how the other Terrans interacted with the other survivor to know that he was young. They’d even called him ‘kid’ and ‘boy’.

_Thanos had called him a child._

Nebula growled in her throat, as she always did at the thought of the one who dared to call himself her father, but also at her position. She wasn’t a caring person. Never had been—Gamora was the only person she cared about, and even that was strained and tainted by what Thanos had continuously put them through, and her own childhood was hardly a model for how to treat anyone—no matter their age. And now there was someone else’s life dependent on her actions, and she had no clue how to help—or even if she wanted to.

_You could go after Thanos right now…track him down. Why bother taking a dying boy back to Earth—what good will it do, besides giving Thanos a head start?_

It was a tempting thought—she had nothing left to lose, so why not throw everything at her father in one last, desperate play for revenge?

_“To kill Thanos.”_

_“Alone?”_

Why did that have to be his response—like he actually cared whether she was alone or not, like he cared what happened to her, when she didn’t care about him at all?

_Then why didn’t you leave him on Titan? He didn’t know you were still there, you could’ve left him in that wailing mess. Why hand him the medical supplies, if you don’t care whether he lives or dies?_

Why did her conscience have to sound so much like Gamora? That just made the pain of losing her sister worse.

Worse still, the answer revealed a sentimental weakness she cringed to acknowledge: she hadn’t left him there because he sounded like how she felt, so many years ago, when her own family was slaughtered, stolen away from her before her nightmare truly began. And how she felt when she’d pieced together—two heartbeats before Quill had—that her sister, the only person left in the universe that Nebula had let herself care about—was gone. So much of her was machine now she doubted she was physically capable of shedding tears, of giving full voice to her grief like she had as a child. But he could, and had, and…

…she couldn’t leave him behind. Curse her infernal weakness—would she never be rid of it?—but she hadn’t been able to leave the boy behind. She was taking him back to earth because, if she didn’t, if she took him with her to fight Thanos, she might actually find herself distracted, trying to make sure he stayed back and out of her way.

Movement behind her caught her attention, and she glanced at a readout. Barely an hour since the kid’d dropped off. Still, an hour’s sleep was better than nothing, given the circumstances…

“No…”

_Shit. Nightmare._

Nebula hadn’t thought she could get any more out of her depth, and then the kid had to go and prove her wrong. He was shifting, mumbling to himself in the grips of whatever terrors his own mind was putting him through, and she found that she was standing by him without any real memory of having left the cockpit.

She frowned down at the sleeping child, caught in yet another moment of indecision (she was getting very tired of those) before deciding against physical contact and going for volume instead.

“JUST WAKE UP ALREADY!” she yelled, and was actually rewarded with the sight of the boy sitting bolt upright, though he immediately wrapped his arm around his side when he did.

_Right. Injury._

 He looked up at her, swallowed, then found his voice at last. “Are we there yet?” he asked in a small voice, and the little sideways smirk seemed to say this was some kind of a joke to him, but not one he found funny, at the moment.

She just frowned. “We’ve got at least two more hours before we’re in the right star system.”

He nodded, slumping forward and staring at the floor, and Nebula shifted at the sight of the huddled, hunched figure, cursing whatever sort of sentiment was infecting her the longer she stayed in his presence. “Can you walk?”

He squinted up at her, and she waited, sensing he was taking stock of his own state. “How far?” he asked at last.

She gestured to the cockpit, and he seemed to measure the distance before nodding. Wordlessly, she turned and headed back, listening to see if he would follow. He did.

_Now I won’t have to go back in there to check on him._

_If you ‘don’t care’, why check on him at all?_

_Shut up, Gamora._

His brown eyes went wide at the vista that opened before them through the view hatch, and Nebula was reminded that the reason she knew so little of Terrans was that they were not generally a space-faring species. He sank into one of the chairs and stared out, mercifully silent, for several long moments, and Nebula allowed herself to believe she could spend the rest of the journey wrapped up in her own thoughts once more.

No such luck.

“Was it just you and your sister?”

She glared at the boy, but he must’ve read incomprehension rather than anger, because he actually kept talking, contrary to common sense.

“I mean, like, it’s just me and my Aunt May. Is it just the two of you, or—

“Gamora lived here. With her friends. I didn’t.”

The boy glanced around, seeming to realize for the first time that, odds were, he was sitting in a dead man’s (or woman’s) chair.

“She was all I had.” The words surprised the boy, but not as much as they surprised _her_. What was she doing—or what was the kid doing to her? “Thanos took her life, I will take his. Alone.”

She didn’t look at him, but she felt his eyes boring into her. “No,” he said at last, drawing her gaze, only to see that he was staring straight at her, and there was something determined in those eyes that hadn’t been there since before the snap split the universe in half.

“No?” she asked, beginning to see something else in her ally—maybe the strength that had let him actually draw blood from Thanos, however small an amount it had been?

“Not alone,” he answered. “Whoever’s left—we’re coming, too. Me and Mr. Stark—” his voice broke a little on the name, but he pushed on, “—we weren’t the only Avengers. If the others are still alive, they’ll want in, too. And I do. So no, not alone.”

Nebula didn’t know how to respond to that, so, she didn’t, turning her gaze back out at the universe. _‘… if the others are alive…’ _Somehow, she just couldn’t bring herself to point out that the odds were against that. Surely they were the two that survived the dead planet because they were the two Thanos didn’t see as a threat. Odds were, the same thing had happened on earth, and the rest of these ‘Avengers’ were dust.

* * *

It was a pretty quiet trip after that.

For one thing, Peter didn’t really know what to say to his strange ally. Normally, that wouldn’t have stopped him from babbling until he hit on the right topic, but the events of that day weighed heavy on both of them, and stifled any light-hearted conversation.

For another, the pain in his side was returning, growing, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d even make it back to earth.

But then, he saw Saturn just a head of them and he sat up as much as he could, trying to hold to the spark of wonder that couldn’t quite be suppressed. Because, if seeing the planets he’d studied since elementary school could still ignite something in him, then maybe, just maybe, there was still some hope in the universe. Not everything good was taken away, and what had been? Well, maybe they could bring it back.

He craned his neck as they passed Jupiter, searching until he could see the Great Red Spot. From the corner of his eye, he saw Nebula start to press something on the console in front of her, and somehow, he got the feeling she was taking over manual control. Made sense: they were getting close, and the asteroid belt _was_ coming up.

Before they even saw the first asteroid, Nebula addressed him without looking over. “Do you have coordinates for where on Earth you need to be?”

That stopped him a moment. Where _did_ he need to go? His first instinct was to go home, make sure that May, Ned, MJ and all his friends were still there, still safe but…but he didn’t want to see an empty apartment, if they weren’t. Also, he needed to meet up with the other Avengers—or whoever was left of them—and make some kind of a plan to fix this…They had to be able to fix this.

_So, the compound then? Do I even know the coordinates?_

Hesitantly, he glanced at the blue cyborg in the pilot chair who was still waiting for an answer. “I-uh, have to check with the suit’s AI for exact coordinates. Just a moment?”

Nebula only shrugged, and seemed to think his explanation less strange than _he_ did. (Seriously, what sort of tech really was out there in the rest of the galaxy?) A half-second later, he had the new suit’s mask on and had half-turned away.

“Karen?” he asked quietly, half-afraid that, now that the man who invented her was… gone, the AI would be, too.

Fortunately, the familiar voice replied after only a heartbeat. “Peter, suit biometrics indicate you’ve received a traumatic injury. You require immediate medical attention.”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled in reply. “That’s actually what I needed to ask. Coordinates for the Avengers compound? It’s an emergency. You know I’d never ask if it wasn’t—”

“There is nobody at the compound,” a different voice interrupted. Peter wasn’t as familiar with this one, but he _had_ heard it before.

“FRIDAY? How—”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the accented AI sounded… sad. “As you said Peter, it’s an emergency. Since Mr. Stark still had some monitoring in place for the new suit, I was able to access it and communicate with you.”

In another life time, under other circumstances, he would have been annoyed, maybe even insulted. Now, his mentor’s concern just left the teen feeling… hollow. Then, FRIDAY’s first message sunk in. “Nobody’s at the compound? You mean they’re—” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought: Dead? Gone? Dust?

“No, Peter,” the other AI rushed to clarify. “At least, Col. Rhode’s suit is still sending life signs.  I’m sure there are others, too. Unfortunately, my scanners can’t penetrate the Wakandan energy shield to get a more accurate reading.”

“Wakanda?” Peter gasped out, suddenly remembering the battle in the airport, the figure who’d fought beside them, calling himself ‘the Black Panther.’ Hadn’t somebody said something about him being from Wakanda? And there’d been some stuff on the news lately, about the previously overlooked African nation stepping up into the international spotlight.

“Yes, Peter.” Karen was back, now. “The Avengers left on earth chose to make their stand there. I can give you our best triangulation of the coordinates, but you will have to identify yourself at the border.”

“I should be able to contact Col. Rhodes and notify him of your approach,” FRIDAY offered. “Do you want me to tell him about Mr. Stark as well?”

All of a sudden, his side injury wasn’t the greatest pain he was grappling with. It would be so much easier to tell the AI ‘yes’—to not have to own up to his own guilt regarding events on the dead planet. But it felt…wrong…to take the easy path. Like he didn’t deserve to hide behind FRIDAY, and should instead take the full brunt. “No, that’s alright. I’ll—I’ll tell him.”

FRIDAY fell silent then, but Karen stayed with him, thankfully. “Receiving coordinates now.” Then, after he read them off to Nebula, Karen continued in a quiet, gentle tone. “I’m glad you’re safe, Peter. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

“May?” he managed to croak.

“She survived, Peter. I can’t connect a phone call, but I can send her a message, let her know you are alive.”

Alive. Not safe, not okay—alive. But then, at the moment, wasn’t that the best that could be said?

“Thank you, Karen.”

* * *

However much they wanted to, or felt like it, Steve and the others couldn’t just keep sitting, stunned and immobilized by shock and grief. As cruel as it seemed, the world had kept spinning, and there were things that had to be done. Those who’d died earlier in the battle—the dead that had left bodies behind—had to be buried, and more pressing was the need to find, transport, and treat the injured living.

Okoye and M’Baku together took charge of these efforts, working together nearly automatically, both using activity to hold grief at bay until a more opportune (and discreet) moment. Mechanically, Steve forced himself to his feet and stumbled over to offer his help, followed by a few of the surviving Avengers.

The first few hours of the battle were passed in a daze of activity where everyone was doing their best _not_ to think about what the fact that they had lost actually meant. Somehow, Steve had made it back into the city proper (turning away when he accidentally happened upon Shuri and her mother moments after receiving the news about T’Challa), and found himself without anything to do for the first time since the end of the battle.

He stood in a deserted hallway, staring at nothing in particular, and trying to grapple with any sense of the magnitude of the tragedy. He itched to do something, to have a plan, but how could you plan now? What could be done? Half of all life, everywhere, gone. And more to follow soon, he realized with a sickening twist: drivers, captains, pilots gone; people who had been cooking, or dealing with fire or dangerous chemicals and materials which now had no control—how many collateral deaths would be added to the tally in the next few days and hours? How could they help? What could they do?

Never had Steve regretted his un/official position as leader more—not even after the fight that split the Avengers. There, at least, there’d been a conviction underneath that he’d done what he could, what he thought was right. Maybe more and more regrets had seeped in over the intervening years, but even then, there’d been things he could do, _had_ to do, to take care of what remained of his team. Now, all that seemed to remain was a sickening helplessness.

Worst still: that was the _easy_ part of the thought to grapple with. Far harder to deal with, perhaps because it was easier wrap his head around, was the immediate, personal cost. T’Challa, Wanda, Vision, Sam, Bucky…Gone. Dead or dissolved, in part because of calls _he_ made. The nature of the loss was so total, the nature of their disappearances so alien that it was hard for him to move from the shock into grief proper, but once he did, it would hit him hard. He’d be immobilized worse than he had been in those first few, sickening moments.

Approaching footsteps drew Steve from his dark introspection in time to see Rhodey coming towards him.

“Just got a message from Stark’s AI,” he began with no preamble. “There’s a ship coming with some friendlies. Should be at the border in under twenty minutes. Apparently, there was a group fighting Thanos somewhere else, trying to stop him before he got here.”

_Stark._

The name hung in the air between them, and Steve realized he was now standing stiff upright when, moments before, he’d been leaning against the wall. “Anything from Tony himself?”

“No. No word on how many to expect, or what condition they’re in. Can’t be good, if they fought and lost, so I notified medical to stand by. They’re in triage mode, though, so we’ll have to see what can be done.”

Steve nodded, latching gratefully onto the plain-spoken report. It wasn’t much to do, but it was something. Right now, he needed something.

“We could all use a little good news right now,” he stated, needlessly. “And it’d be just like him to come swooping in just when we need him most.”

Rhodey nodded, but the grim set of his jaw was a testament to how little he was determined to get his hopes up. The two soldiers began making their way towards the border and were quickly joined by Thor and the raccoon he’d come with, Okoye and one of her guards, and Bruce. Apparently, Steve was one of the last Rhodey had found to tell.

Steve glanced over at Bruce. “Where’s Natasha?”

“She borrowed a jet,” came the scientist’s reply. “She finally managed to get a hold of Clint, but whatever she found out…” He let the thought dangle, and somber silence fell.

It lasted until they were at the edge of the border—thankfully, in a different direction than the field of the failed battle. There, they waited, and they didn’t have to wait long.

The raccoon, standing on Thor’s shoulder, was the first to spot the incoming vessel, and, evidently, he recognized it.

“About time you morons got here!” he hollered at the incoming vessel. “Get down here already so I can yell at you!”

Thor also tracked the incoming vessel with some familiarity. “Ah, so Stark encountered the other Guardians. I almost wish I’d been there to see that meeting.”

Steve chose not to comment on that, but decided to brace himself for anything to emerge from that ship. After all, the two ‘Guardians’ who’d accompanied Thor had been a tree and a raccoon, so he supposed anything was possible.

The hatch opened, revealing two figures shuffling towards them, one seeming to support nearly all of the other’s weight. Steve was suddenly very glad Rhodey had alerted medical to stand by, but he also noted, with a part of his mind, that both figures were too slight to be Tony. Maye he was letting the injured out first?

“Nebula?” Rocket’s confused question cut the silence as the two emerged from the ship.

The blue one turned at his voice, still supporting the kid in the red and blue armor, who looked pretty pale and shaky. Bruce was already approaching him in ‘doctor mode’, and Rhodey was stumbling over as well, apparently having recognized the boy.

Rocket ignored both, continuing to focus on this ‘Nebula’. “What the hell, Nebula? Where are the others? On what god-forsaken rock did they find _you_?”

“Titan.” Came the mechanical reply, and which question it was supposed to answer was left unsaid. Rocket was stiff, as if bracing for a physical blow, and Steve felt a sickening twist in his gut as he realized what his strange ally was about to hear. “They’re dead, Rocket. Thanos killed them.”

“BULLSHIT!” Rocket leapt off Thor’s shoulder and charged past the two new comers into the ship, and the blue girl closed her eyes as if trying to block out the sound of the raccoon’s desperate, hopeless search for any signs of his friends.

As painful a scene as that was, Steve was also concerned about the kid, who Bruce and Rhodey had lowered gently to the ground. Coming closer, Steve could definitely tell the kid was in rough shape, but somehow, he was still clinging to consciousness. He knelt by the clump, stomach twisting as he took in just how young the injured boy seemed to be.

“Peter, just stay calm. We can get you back to the city in no time, you’re going to be okay,” Rhodey’s voice was taut with the tension they all felt that day, but was keeping his tone gentle, at least. Steve glanced towards the ship, waiting to see who else had come, when he heard the colonel ask, “Peter, where’s Tony?”

He turned, in time to see the absolutely tortured look on the young face.

_No._

“I-I’m sorry,” came the tiny voice, and damn if it wasn’t too young to be that broken, to be here, in the middle of a lost war. “It’s my fault; it’s all my fault. He told me to go back home and I didn’t and I messed everything up and we lost and—”

Suddenly, Thor and the blue girl were there, having joined the small cluster. “Don’t listen to him,” the girl said flatly. “There were two others who lost the fight for us. Not him.” She turned away then, as if being around them was physically uncomfortable for her, but Steve was able to hear her mutter: “It’s just the survivor guilt talking.”

“Thor,” Bruce cut in from where he was examining some kind of injury to the boy’s side, “He needs to get to the city immediately. Can you—”

The doctor didn’t even have to finish his statement: Thor scooped the kid up, which made the teen look even smaller, and was already flying towards the city before the boy could protest.

Bruce set off at a steady pace after them, clearly intending to go back to lending his skills to the Wakandan doctors (after a battle of the scale they’d just faced, no pair of hands was turned away), Okoye and the guard drifted a little closer to the remaining stranger, and Rocket had yet to re-emerge from the ship, though any sounds of movement inside had stopped, and Steve thought he could just hear the faint sound of crying. He stopped listening.

That left the two soldiers standing together, looking back towards the city, turned away from the too-empty ship. “Who is he?” Steve asked at last.

“Stark’s protégé. Some kid from Queens with some powers and an over-helpful nature.” Steve froze, suddenly anticipating the next revelation as it came. “You’ve actually met him, you know. Had a different suit at the airport, but…”

As if he needed one more thing to regret about the airport fight. Not that he knew at the time how young the newcomer was (though, if he was honest with himself, the voice was a big clue), but still.

Fortunately, Rhodey had changed tracks. “Tony’s really gotten attached to the kid. Real protective, you know?”

The words ‘he’d die before he let anything happen to him’ weren’t spoken aloud, but they were heard, all the same.

* * *

At first, Steve had tried to jump back into the recovery efforts upon return to the city, but eventually he’d been told point-blank that, in absence of medical staff available to check over the surviving heroes who were (more or less) up and about, they were at least being ordered to stand down and rest, as best they could, for at least six hours before returning to work.

The captain’s skin itched with the urge to do something, and the fear of what he would see when he closed his eyes kept him from seeking out sleep, at least, until he was so exhausted he couldn’t fight it any longer.

And so, in a desperate effort to avoid too many empty rooms in the wing set aside for the Avengers upon their arrival, he found himself in the recovery area of the medical wing—specifically, the kid’s room. He sat in a chair near the door, keeping an eye on the still-unconscious teen out of a sense of debt or obligation he couldn’t quite verbalize, other than to say that someone should be here for the young hero—

_Tony would’ve been there._

Steve shook his head slightly, not denying the truth of the thought, but trying to minimize the pain that came with it. So many things he couldn’t apologize for, now, so many things he couldn’t tell the inventor that he regretted. The least he could do was look out for the kid Stark had taken under his wing.

Familiar footsteps in the hall caught his attention and the captain turned to see Col. Rhodes enter, wordlessly taking the seat next to Peter’s hospital bed. Steve watched the two for a moment before finding his voice.

“How well do you know him?”

Rhodey shook his head, before answering in a low tone, as if not wanting to disturb the teen beside him. “Only met him in person a few times. The airport, one or two other times. Tony mentors him, but tries to keep him away from the big stuff after Berlin.”

Steve winced at the memory, remembering all too well the sort of hits his team had dished out, not realizing there was a _child_ on the field of battle.

“Actually, there was a point he was going to invite him into the Avengers,” Rhodey corrected himself. “Something about the kid proving himself ready. But Peter actually turned him down, felt he needed to keep looking out for the little guy for a while. I don’t think he realized how serious Tony was. Or proud.”

The last part was added in an almost-inaudible tone, but Steve heard it, all the same. He watched Peter’s face, still feeling a little sick inside as he thought over everything the kid had seen and experienced before even graduating high school. He thought of the bare-bones report Nebula had given about the events on Titan, from the moment she arrived and joined in the effort to restrain Thanos. The only bright spot—if it could even be called that—was that Tony hadn’t been alone in the end, but had been with the kid he poured so much into. And it was a sad testament to how dark things were that such a fact could be considered a ‘bright spot’.

_Especially since that probably makes it worse for Peter._

As if remembering the blue cyborg summoned her from wherever she’d wandered off to after the guards had assured themselves she wasn’t a further threat, Nebula appeared in the doorway, where she hesitated, dark eyes flicking over to the too-still teen.

“Thor got him to surgery in time,” Steve found himself telling her, though who he was reassuring, he honestly didn’t know. “Bruce says he should pull through no problem, and there were signs of his arm already healing, so they honestly expect him to wake up pretty soon.”

Nebula nodded, still watching the boy she’d brought home—just in the nick of time, if the medical team’s report was to be understood. “He said you’d be going after Thanos,” she said at last.

The words sucked all the air out of the room, and both soldiers turned to the alien, who glanced away, uncomfortable under their gazes. “Said he and the other one weren’t the only Avengers. Said anyone who was alive would want to go after Thanos. Said he did.”

Steve glanced back to Rhodey, thought of something he knew Stark had said before, and repeated often, half-seriously during missions, or when telling the story of their first one: _“…If we can’t save the earth, you can be damn sure we’ll avenge it…”_

He saw the same determination settle on the colonel that he felt himself, and the two exchanged a grim nod. Maybe it wouldn’t do any good, but it was something, at least. “We’ll have to take stock, see who’s still able to go, what resources we’ve got—”

“Figure out where that purple bastard is and how we get to him,” Rhodey put in. “once we’ve got that and a plan—”

“Then we’re gone, or he is,” Steve finished, and found he felt fine with either ending. There was no one to save this time, only a final push to one dark end or another, and that made things easier, somehow.

Nebula nodded, apparently satisfied, and though she turned to go, hesitancy seized her. Steve nodded to the one empty chair in the room. With a glare that dared any of them to comment, she took it, resolutely not looking at Peter—except for occasional glance that might have been concerned. Apparently, she wasn’t used to or comfortable with something about the situation, and he opted not to ask which or what.

The next moment, Peter was stirring, and the question was forgotten, anyway. Suddenly, the kid sat bolt upright with a yell, and Steve was on his feet and halfway across the room before the realization he didn’t know what to do had even crossed his mind.

Rhodey was closer, though, and apparently more ready to step in, as he lay a steadying hand on one of the boy’s shoulders. “Easy kid, easy there. Take a few breaths before you try to speak.”

Peter nodded, latching onto the colonel’s voice and gulping down oxygen as the monitor indicated his heartrate slowing to a normal rate. As the teen settled, Steve saw Nebula sit back down from the corner of his eye, the blue girl looking away as if to deny her momentary surge or concern and care. The captain opted to focus on the now-awake boy, rather than Nebula’s obstinate denial.

The young hero was obeying Rhodey’s urging not to try to talk yet, and his brown eyes flicked over the room, taking in the medial equipment, what would have been a foreign design sensibility to the New Yorker, and finally the three of them. His eyes widened slightly when they landed on Steve, and the captain was surprised and, admittedly, relieved to see no fear, anger, or blame there considering the last time they’d met in Berlin. But the biggest reaction was when Peter saw Nebula. He froze, practically turning to stone, and her face lost any expression it had before, except for something grim and dark. Surprisingly, she was the first to speak.

“Nope. It wasn’t a dream, kid.”

Peter seemed to deflate at that blunt statement, gaze dropping to his lap, even as he reached over subconsciously to probe his injury. Rhodey grabbed his hand before he could. “Let it heal, Peter.”

“What do we do now?”

It was the question they were all wondering, but damn if the voice that asked it wasn’t too young, too small, too…wounded (an impression he realized he was having a lot with this kid—no wonder Tony tried to keep him away from the big, world-ending sorts of events). War might be hell, but this—this was worse.

Surprisingly—or maybe not—it was Nebula who answered. “We kill Thanos. There’s nothing else left to do.”

The change that came over the kid was as immediate as it was surprising. Just a moment before he’d been a lost, heartbroken child. Now, now a determination replaced any indecision, and it was just as easy for Steve to see why Tony had been ready for the kid to step up, why he was as proud of the hero as he was of the human. “Okay. …How do we do that, exactly?”

“We? Kid, you just got out of surgery after bleeding out for who knows how long—” Rhodey began, but he never did get to finish.

“Healing factor,” Peter cut in. “My arm’s already better. I give it a day or two, tops, and I’m back to completely normal. Well, normal for me.”

Rhodey clearly wanted to protest more, and Steve did understand the colonel’s desire to keep a kid away from the front lines of a losing war, but Peter’d already been there. Besides, he recognized—remembered—the burning desire to help the world that deemed him too small to do any good.

“It’ll take us at least that long to gather everybody, see what resources can be spared from any recovery efforts. It’ll probably have to be a bare-bones attempt, but given how many people we’ve lost, we’ll need anybody who’s willing and able.” Nebula glared at the delay, but didn’t protest—apparently accepting it was better to go prepared than to go early, as much as she hated it. It was Col. Rhodes who looked tempted to pull rank on the captain and insist that Spiderman sit out the coming fight.

Peter interrupted before that confrontation came, probably not even realizing what had just passed between the two men. “Who—who’s still…” his voice trailed off, unable to fully commit to the daunting question.

“We still have to see,” Rhodey answered. “Most of us were here, but there are a couple we’re still checking in on. We did manage to contact your aunt. She’s worried, but there’s no way to get her out here, with all the chaos going on right now. She’s pissed, but safe.”

Peter nodded, clearly scared to ask something more. Fortunately, the colonel seemed to know what it was.

“She said to tell you Ned and MJ have both been calling, asking about you. So they’re still here, at least.”

A deep, shuddering breath ran through the teen, and without even knowing who these people were, exactly, Steve felt relieved they survived the immediate aftermath of the snap—Peter’d already been through enough.

“Get some rest, kid— _real_ rest, not ‘I was unconscious while they patched me up’. Like the Cap said, there’s a lot we have to do before we’re ready to go after the purple bastard that did this.”

He helped Peter lay back down, then followed Steve out of the room. It wasn’t lost on them that Nebula stayed behind, but they chose not comment.


	3. 'How Tender 'Tis to Love the Babe'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I planned this story pretty shortly after watching infinity War for the first time, and I didn't see Ant Man and the Wasp until after I finished writing this, so I goofed a little and had chosen to go with 'what if Clint and Scott both watched their kids dissolve right in front of them' theory that I'd seen in the immediate aftermath of Infinity War (also, Shuri's here because i hand't seen the trailer for Endgame before I wrote this, either). But, hey: it's an AU anyway!

By the next day, Peter was able to get up and walk around, though his side still twinged occasionally. He chose not to comment on that in fear that, if he did, they’d keep him out of the big meeting.

Oh, yeah—the meeting.

It’d be a rush to put it together, but then, most of the people invested in fighting Thanos had already been in Wakanda, and in the main city, so rounding all of them up hadn’t actually been as hard as anticipated. Black Widow had flown in that morning with two people in tow that Peter vaguely remembered from Berlin: Hawkeye and Ant-Man.

Peter sat in the large room—one of the first arrivals—and watched people filter in, so he saw the hollowed-out look on both men’s faces. It was the expression of someone who’d fallen so far into grief they’d landed in the numbness on the other side. He recognized it, his stomach twisting in sympathy. He’d been pulled back from that same overwhelming nothingness by finding out that May, Ned, and MJ had lived. Even as he felt guilt that, after getting Mr. Stark killed, he hadn’t lost his friends or family, he wondered who these two had lost.

He forced himself to look away, as if trying to preserve some semblance of privacy or dignity for the other heroes, and caught the dark gaze of Nebula. The blue girl had been shadowing him since the two had arrived in Wakanda, as near as he could tell (having been unconscious for the first few hours), but he supposed he could understand: it may have been a strange country to him, but it was a strange _planet_ for her, and he was the one familiar face for her besides the talking raccoon that seemed to be actively avoiding her and had kicked her off of the ship they’d arrived on (apparently, Peter put together later, the raccoon was a part of the team that’d fought beside them on Titan, and the teen felt another twist of guilt for failing to save those three, as well).

Nebula looked away quickly, but she practically radiated discomfort as the room began to fill with people—though it was nowhere near full, now that their numbers had been cut in half—and Peter felt some of his own nerves fade as he tried to reassure her. “I told you: not alone.”

Her only response was to glare at him, but he found it didn’t faze him much at all: he’d begun to realize that was pretty close to her default expression.

Before the conversation could progress, Rhodey, Cap, and Thor entered together, and the Asgardian’s expression was set with some kind of grim or desperate hope that, as dark as it was, was still so out of place in the current mood of the room that all assembled seemed to note in and fall silent, awaiting some sort of explanation. Even the colonel and the captain didn’t seem as lost or resigned as they had when he’d woken up, and though Peter had no idea what was coming, he leaned forward, sensing he wouldn’t want to miss any of it.

“We _might_ be able to bring them back.”

The room had been silent before, and after Captain America’s statement, it was frozen, too. Even with all the emphasis he’d put on the conditional word, the fact that he dared to state that the one thing they longed for was actually in the realm of possibility meant that everyone was focused on Steve Rogers.

But instead of explaining himself, he gestured for Thor to step forward and speak, which the Asgardian did.

“The power that wrought this tragedy—the six Infinity Stones—is a difficult one to wield, but if we are able to defeat Thanos and take the Stones from him, it is theoretically possible to undo what has been done. I do not know if there is any among us capable of wielding all six at once, or if some group of us would have to use them in concert, but according to what legends there were on Asgard, either method should work, if all involved held the same purpose in mind.”

Again, the hope offered was weakened and watered down by ‘might’s’ and ‘should’s’ but it was so much more than any one of them had held only moments before. Some, however, were determined to not let hope deal them any further pain.

Nebula stood, glaring down at the three men. “And how do you propose we actually defeat Thanos?”

“Together,” Captain Rogers replied immediately, nearly automatically.

Peter heard Nebula’s scoff, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the rest of what Rogers was saying.

“We fought him piecemeal, in stages, and it wasn’t enough. I know we don’t feel as strong now, so that’s all the more reason to combine what force we have.”

Colonel Rhodes now stepped forward to add to the answer. “There’s unfortunately a lot of unknowns; to start with: where Thanos even is and what sort of force he’ll muster to meet us. But we have some reasons to hope, as well. Whatever he did wiped out every part of his army here on earth, so even if he has more, we can assume they are also greatly reduced. Even better, Thor reports that, immediately after the Snap, both Thanos _and_ the Gauntlet seemed to be in rough shape, so it took a lot more out of him than he anticipated, I think. Of course, the longer we delay, the longer he has to recover, so all necessary preparations need to be weighed against an admittedly vague deadline.”

It wasn’t much of a definite answer, more a summary of all they didn’t know, but something in the plain speech that asked them to focus on doing something specific, rather than a vague ‘recover’ seemed to galvanize the room of heroes, and the next part of the meeting was spent discussing possibilities, resources, and strategies.

Peter didn’t contribute much, but he listened to everything, especially once Nebula began to add her piece in. A sort of shocked ripple went through the room when she revealed her connection to Thanos, but Peter didn’t really worry too much—he remembered (through a haze of the pain he was in at the time) how vehemently she’d spoken of ending Thanos. He trusted her.

And it seemed she actually knew a good deal of what they needed to know—and could give a pretty good guess at the rest. She narrowed the ‘where’ down to three otherwise-uninhabited planetoids and informed them that, in all likelihood Thanos was currently alone, though if the Gauntlet was not to damaged, he did still have fragments of his army he could summon.

Then a girl Peter hadn’t noticed before (apparently she was the princess of Wakanda?) turned the question to gear and what her lab could provide, even volunteering to inspect suits and weaponry to see if there were any upgrades that could be made quickly, even if the damage sustained had been minimal.

Once they started talking actual battle strategies and transportation arrangements, Peter slipped out of the room. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested—in fact, he was pretty sure he’d need to ask someone for the recap later, once a definite plan was set—it was just that it was hitting him what kind of a mission he was on, and how long it might be before he was back on earth.

All at once, he didn’t feel much like Spiderman (‘Friendly, Neighborhood’ or any other kind), he just felt like Peter Parker: a kid in over his head that didn’t want to go into space again without seeing his aunt, his friends, one more time. What if he hadn’t made it back from Titan? How long would May, Ned, and MJ wonder? Who would’ve told them? If he didn’t make it back from this trip, there probably wouldn’t be anyone _to_ tell them. He _couldn’t_ just leave—not without saying goodbye. But if he did go to them, would he be able to force himself to leave them for the space mission? Would they let him?

Peter never was sure how long he’d sat in that hall, staring blankly at nothing before his heightened senses picked up approaching footsteps. Glancing up, he saw that it was Hawkeye exiting the meeting hall, expression still hard to read, but undeniably grim.

The two noticed each other at about the same time, and the older hero frowned, obviously struggling to place the teen without the suit.

“You alright?” the archer asked after a moment.

Peter actually had to think about it. The meaning of that word certainly had changed in the handful of days since everything fell apart. “I’m not hurt,” he finally settled on, though even that wasn’t strictly true, as a twinge in his side was all too happy to remind him.

Hawkeye’s expression didn’t clear, and he sat next to Peter almost without thinking.

“Not what I was asking, but I guess nobody is, any more. How’d a kid like you get roped into this fustercluck?”

Peter blinked at the self-censored swear that’d come without even a brief pause before hand, then answered the question without commenting on it. “I tried to help Mr. Stark—” (there was that damn voice crack again) “—save a wizard from an alien.”

The man beside him nodded slowly, not commenting, though Peter did pick up an eventual, muttered, “…world just keeps getting weirder...” Aloud, though, he followed a different track, “So, did you know Tony or was it just a case of being in the area?”

How did he answer that? It wasn’t like he could claim to actually know Mr. Stark very well—he couldn’t even bring himself to _think_ of the inventor on a first-name basis—but they were more than passing strangers.

“H-He’s been helping me out. Resources, training, advice…” Only, it’d been so much more—but he didn’t know the words that could adequately summarize what it was, and even if he’d had them, he wasn’t sure he’d want to verbalize them.

Hawkeye was still watching him, frowning as he continued sizing up the younger hero. “And he pulled you into a fight this big—” Before Peter could protest the disparagement he heard, the other man shook his head, apparently having changed his own mind. “No, he wouldn’t. Let me guess: you were already pulling these sorts of stunts when he stepped in?” At Peter’s nod, a little of the archer’s expression cleared. “That’s more like the Tony I know. And I’m not exactly one to talk, either; Wanda can tell you—” He cut himself off then and fell silent, glaring at the wall across from him.

Peter was trying his best to keep up, and the name ‘Wanda’ had been familiar…someone else from the airport fight, maybe? Well, there’d only been two women, and the other one was the Black Widow, and the girl with the red energy on the other team had seemed pretty young… and he hadn’t seen her since his arrival.

He didn’t know what to say, faced once again with the scope of how massively they had lost and how many people were just…gone. How did he escape with just losing one? Hawkeye had lost so many, just about everyone around him here, had. Nebula was alone, and Rocket, and the stories he’d heard about what Thor had gone through…

It was Clint who pulled himself out of the dark silence first, again looking at the teen beside him. He knew the others would be tripping over how young the boy seemed to be. They’d only been alright with the Maximoff twins joining up because the twins already had been fighting—it simply became a case of switching to fight for their side. Also, he thought it highly likely that because Wanda and Pietro looked older than they were the other Avengers hadn’t really thought about the fact they were bringing teens onto the battlefield. To be honest, he hadn’t, either, until Pietro took those bullets for him.

When he’d woken up, he’d tried to keep Wanda away from further fights, but she firmly informed him she was an Avenger now—just like he’d told her. He remembered seeing in her eyes, then, that while she was still young, she wasn’t a child, she was a fighter. This kid may have had a younger-looking face, but he probably was about the age the twins had been when the Avengers met them, give or take a year, and he had that same look in his eyes. Whatever he’d already seen, faced, and fought—he wasn’t a child to be told to stand by and let the others protect him, he was one you trained and helped so he didn’t get in over his head. He was one you fought beside so he had someone watching his back.

Just what Tony had been doing, apparently.

“You got a family, kid?” Why did he ask that? If the boy was here, on his own, the answer likely wasn’t good, and he knew better than anyone about not wanting to think about what’d been lost just a few days before.

But the kid didn’t tense up. “My aunt. In New York City. They can’t get her out here, yet.” The homesickness in that voice was palpable, and a bit of worry, too. Well, given the chaos spreading across the planet right now, that did make sense.

Clint took another heartbeat to size up the slumped figure beside him, reading the nonverbal cues even as he replayed tone of voice, but the conclusion he reached was the same as his gut instinct, so he went with it. “You want to see her before you go.”

_Bingo._ Up came the head, and the teen’s eyes were locked on his. Clint kept talking. “Makes sense—we don’t know how long we’ll be gone. If we’ll come back. Best to make a proper goodbye first. What part of New York?”

“Queens,” came the whispered reply, then the kid glanced back at the meeting room, but Clint clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“They’re still talking, then they’ve got to get everyone wrangled together and geared up. We’ve got time to go, get back, and suit up.”

Otherwise he’d be here with nothing to do but think over that horrible instant when he was sanding in his living room, trying to wrap his mind around being the only person on his farm.

* * *

A suspicion had been growing in Peter’s mind all through the conversation with Hawkeye—Clint, he told Peter to call him—sparked by the automatic not-swear and reinforced by the way the older hero treated Peter, carried himself around him, kept glancing at him as the two settled into the Quinjet, the muttered advice, the implication he’d been comfortable enough around at least teens to recruit another young hero, and a hundred other little details and moments.

As they reached level flight after takeoff, Peter gave the thought a voice. “You work with kids a lot?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted it. He could _feel_ the archer tense up and shut down, and remembered with a sickening twist the dark, numb expression on the man’s face before the meeting had started. Why did he go and open his big mouth? Why hadn’t he left well enough alone?

“Every day.” The answer was a taut monotone that felt like a punch to Peter’s gut.

In an effort to offer even a little shred of hope, the teen echoed the captain’s words, “We might be able to bring them back.” It seemed a pathetically small comfort, and even smaller chance, but it was what Peter had to hold onto at the moment, and he offered it willingly, if weakly.

Hawkeye—Clint—glanced over, expression unreadable. If he had to guess, the young hero would say the man was weighing the need to not get his own hopes up with the instinct not to crush another’s.

“So, how did you find yourself in this little sideshow?” was all he said, in the end.

Feeling he owed the man a distraction, Peter launched into the story of how he got his powers. Perhaps not as animated as the few times he’d told it in the past, and he tried his best not to ramble down side trails, but the archer seemed to actually be listening.

When Peter reached the end, Clint shook his head, managing a wry smirk. “DIY option, huh? Gotta give you props for that. When did Tony step in?”

The teen hesitated, wondering if the current mood could handle a reminder of Berlin, or if his subsequent adventures would make sense with it omitted.

But the older man could read what a person didn’t say as much as what they did, and Peter had described his first attempt at a suit, which was apparently clue enough for the older hero. “The airport?”

“He didn’t think it would be a fight,” Peter felt he had to add. At least Clint nodded, at that.

“None of us wanted it to go that way. We could drive ourselves mad running alternate scenario’s and what-if’s. Still, probably not the best first impression.”

Peter shrugged. He’d not really given it much thought—on purpose, if he was being honest—and hadn’t really expected to run into ‘the other guys’ from Berlin again, so hadn’t really considered any kind of grudge. “I’d been noticed,” was the explanation he offered at last, and the nod the archer gave him seemed to say he understood.

“So, you stuck pretty close to Tony after all that?”

Peter gave a lop-sided grin. “Tried. Probably made a nuisance of myself. Then I thought I’d messed up somehow and had to prove myself, so I kinda…”

“Got in over your head?”

“Only on the ferry!” Peter rushed to interject. “I actually did catch the bad guy on my own—with my old suit, too, not the new one. Did ruin my homecoming date, though.”

The smirk Clint was giving him was _definitely_ a teasing one. “Give her time. Girls love a hero.”

Peter suddenly found the floor of the plane _very_ interesting. “Well, her dad kinda _was_ the bad guy, and he tried to kill me when he found out that I’m Spiderman. I mean, he dropped a _building_ on me. And now that he’s in prison, she and her mom decided to move. I guess I can’t really blame them, and I don’t know if I ever could’ve really made it work, anyway.” He finally managed to make himself stop talking, face bright red at that last addition.

Hawkeye only nodded sympathetically. “High school can be rough.”

The ridiculous understatement hung in the silence that lasted during the last few minutes of their approach to New York City.

* * *

If anything could make Peter question his resolve to continue the fight against Thanos, feeling the relieved sobs that shook May’s frame as she clung to him would have been it. The teen didn’t care that MJ and Ned were also in the living room, watching the two—if anything, having the three of them all in the same place was a relief, as he could keep an eye on all of them at once.

Eventually, Ned grew tired of waiting his turn and joined the now group-hug. MJ hung back a little, but she did reach over to grab Peter’s arm with a grip of steel that conveyed more than she’d ever put into words.

How could he think of leaving? He was needed here—how could he leave them behind and travel across the whole galaxy when there was little to no chance he’d be back? Clint was just outside the apartment, waiting—it’d be so easy to poke his head out, to say that he couldn’t go. Surely the archer would understand?

Abruptly MJ released his arm and stepped back, her usual mask of indifference slipping into place as she sized him up. But it was no longer whole, there were cracks, especially at her eyes, where hurt and anger did battle. “You’ve got to go,” she said at last, and Peter flinched, thinking the anger was directed at him.

May and Ned gaped at him, holding tighter as if to force him to stay. MJ kept talking in a voice that was almost dead.

“You’re going after who or what did this.” She left no room for denial, the same as when she’d informed him only a few weeks before that she knew he was Spiderman. “Can you fix it?”

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? “We think so.”

MJ nodded once, anger winning the battle at last, but not for anyone in that room. “Then do it. Go bring them back—all of them. Ned and I’ll look after May for you.” The mask more firmly in pace, she held his gaze, a general giving her orders, allowing no protest.

Suddenly, Peter noticed the two make-shift beds—one on the couch, one on the floor, and looked between Ned and May for the confirmation. “You’ve been staying here? Ned—” but he could not form the question, and the expression on his best friend’s face was answer enough anyway.

“Peter, don’t—” Ned tried, but the other teen was already worming his way out of the embrace, albeit, reluctantly.

“I’m going to bring them back. We’re going to fix this. We have to.” He finally dared to look at May, swallowing back further tears at the stricken look on her face. “We have to.”

“I know,” she admitted at last. “That’s what scares me.”

He stepped in for one last hug—a farewell, this time—and his parting words. “Keep each other safe. I love you.” He let his eyes rest on each of them, letting go of teenage shame to be sure they each knew he meant it. He didn’t say that he’d be back—couldn’t bring himself to promise something he wasn’t sure he could deliver.

It was MJ who guided him out the apartment door, pausing only briefly for her final words to him. “Don’t take too long, now. You’re my prom date, after all.”

Peter blinked at the non-sequitur. “Wait—I am?” He was pretty sure he’d remember asking her, but it had been a trying week.

MJ went straight for a kiss on the lips, a parting shot of, “You are now,” and a door slammed abruptly in his face.

Peter stood there in shock for a moment, suddenly intensely aware of Clint leaning against the wall a little ways down the hallway, arms folded, watching the whole final exchange. The teen turned to the archer, finding a smirk on the older hero’s face. “High school,” was the only thing Hawkeye said, before heading back down the hallway, out of the building.

* * *

When they’d made it to where he’d left the jet—in cloaking mode, _yes Natasha_ , he wasn’t _always_ an idiot—there was a woman standing there. Back to them, arms wrapped around herself as if they were the only things holding her together anymore (an all-too common assessment, in this post-snap universe), she was a pitiable figure, but not an unfamiliar one.

“Pepper,” he whispered to himself, dreading the coming encounter. He knew they’d already gotten word to her about losing Tony, so at least he wouldn’t have to be the one to deliver that news, but as he knew all too well what she was feeling, this was not a conversation he was eager for.

To Clint’s surprise, the kid stepped forward with a stricken expression on his face. “Miss Potts—” he began, and the archer wasn’t entirely convinced the voice crack was because of his age.

Pepper turned at his voice, face crumpling a little at the sight of them, but as she focused on Peter, she tried to muster something of a wan smile. The teen dragged himself in front of her, head hung and eyes firmly on the ground. Clint was startled at first, then thought that, if Tony really had been a mentor-figure to Peer, the kid probably knew Pepper, too. Though why he looked so dejected at the sight of her, the archer couldn’t think—

“I’m sorry.”

He could barely make out the words, Peter’s voice was so small. Abruptly, Pepper stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the boy, who was shaking with—tears?

Clint held back as the two cried together, not out of any cold-hearted motivation, but out of the sense this was a sort of private moment for the two, and in hopes of keeping himself at least partially together and moving forward for as long as he could.

In interest of that, he kept his mind focused on this scene instead of wandering back to his own grief, trying to puzzle out why Peter was looking and acting so—

_Guilty._

As soon as the word suggested itself, the archer felt the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. How had the kid put it when asked how he got wrapped up in everything? _‘I tried to help Mr. Stark save a wizard from an alien.’_ Admittedly, Clint hadn’t really followed, or even cared about, the shattered fragments of the tale of the fight against Thanos that’d he’d been given or that he’d overheard, but he’d heard Stark had dissolved after the snap somewhere other than Wakanda, after a small team he’d been with had failed to hold Thanos. Had Peter been—

Well, the answer to that question was right in front of him, wasn’t it? No wonder the kid sounded funny whenever he talked about Stark: he hadn’t just heard that Tony had died, he’d likely seen it happen.

_Damn._

Pepper stepped back, putting a gentle hand on the side of Peter’s face, lifting his head to look at her. “He was so proud of you,” she told the still-tearful boy. “Happy, too.”

The teen started, eyes widening, and it took Clint a half-second to remember that ‘Happy’ wasn’t referring to Stark’s mood, but to someone he worked closely with, right? Apparently, someone Peter knew, as well, based on that reaction.

Pepper looked about ready to fall into tears again, but she was holding them back now, holding onto some kind of determination that the archer, personally, envied. “Whatever it is you’ve got to do—whatever you’re going to do,” she said, her gaze flicking over to Clint for a moment, including him in her statement, “You go and do it. Keep each other safe, all of you. And I’ll keep checking in on May, while you’re gone.”

She turned and walked away, then, self-control perhaps exhausted, leaving the two heroes and the invisible jet alone. Clint walked up to the teen, watching as the kid took three deep, shuddering breaths, then raised his head, determined expression back in place.

“We’re going to bring them back,” was all he said, and despite Clint’s determination not to get his hopes up—not to let himself lose his family twice—he almost believed the kid.


	4. 'Trudge, Pack, and Be Gone'

Natasha was… _less than pleased_ when they returned.

On the previous few occasions he’d had facing the wrath of the Black Widow, Clint had furiously apologized, usually while fleeing the area, at least until she calmed down. But now, he stood there, and let her glare and mutter darkly about what she’d do to him if he ever worried her like that again. It wasn’t like anything she could—and especially _would_ —do to him could compare with what he’d already been through, and soon enough his best friend could tell that his thoughts were flowing down those lines and stopped, letting her true worry—not just for the past day, but for him in this new, horrible half-universe—show clearly, if only for a moment.

“Just tell us next time, Clint. Let us know you’re coming back.”

He shrugged. “Don’t have much anywhere else to be, do I? The kid just needed to go home, everyone else was busy.”

At that, the two glanced over to the other huddle, where Peter was on the receiving end of worried lectures from both Steve and Rhodey, while Nebula stood some yards away, arms folded as she tried to project a deliberate air of nonchalance—not very successfully.

For his part, Peter was trying to keep up with both lectures while not falling apart—he may have needed to go, but that didn’t mean that all those farewells left him in a particularly good mindset—and all he really wanted right then was some time alone to process, though whether that would be by yelling, hitting something, or pouring himself into the mission now, he couldn’t honestly say.

He was surprised that Captain America even noticed him, much less cared that he’d vanished for most of a day, and by the concern in both his and Col. Rhodes’ voice. He’d only met the two less than a handful of times each, and he hadn’t thought anyone really took note of him, besides Mr. Stark. In a happier circumstance and better frame of mind, he’d have been ecstatic at this sign of inclusion. As it was, it was all he could do not to physically run away.

“We saw Miss Potts,” he said quietly when both men paused for breath at the same time, allowing space for something to be said. “She’s—” he stopped, about to say, ‘holding it together, kinda’ (because weren’t they all?), but what actually came out was, “alone.” He almost felt the stares and added, “Happy’s gone, too.”

The captain frowned, the colonel just closed his eyes, able to put a face to this new loss. Surprisingly, it was Nebula who spoke up. “If you’re in, you better get moving. Lots to do before we’re ready, and you’re behind now.”

Peter nodded, not so much feeling better as much as clinging to having something to do. It was time to test theories, to keep promises, to save the universe, or at least avenge it, time to charge to the last taunting hope they had, knowing it would likely vanish before they could grasp it:

It was time to go fight Thanos.

* * *

Under any other circumstance, at any other time, the fact that he was sitting in the lab of the Princess of Wakanda herself, surrounded by technology he could only dream of (including several pieces that looked like some daydreams he _had_ actually doodled in a notebook, once), with the person who built them _right there_ for him to ask about any of them would’ve had Peter talking a mile a minute and bouncing like he’d had _way_ too much sugar.

Under any other circumstance, at any other time, the fact that someone her age who could understand what she was doing and follow all of her technical explanations and tangents, would have had Shuri peppering this newcomer with explanations and questions both.

As it was, they were both quiet as Shuri looked over the suit Mr. Stark had given him just as this all started and Peter watched her work. There were workstations for a few other people, but the two teens were the only ones in the lab deep in the mines, and Peter supposed that the girl before him had lost a lot more people than just her older brother, but like him, she was trying to focus on what _could_ be done, rather than what _had_ been done.

“Other than the structural damage, there aren’t too many improvements to make—at this time,” she added, with a half-hearted smirk that indicated an inside joke with…someone. “You built this?”

Peter shook his head. “Mr. Stark. I built my first one, but he made the others…”

His voice trailed off as his thoughts threatened to spiral back to New York and his encounter with Pepper, the loss of Happy—

“Tell me about it.”

He looked up, surprised, to find Shuri staring right at him, an odd look—a _knowing_ look—in her eyes. When he did not speak at first, she repeated herself. “Tell me about your first suit. What you tried, what you built—why you did it the way you did. It’s too quiet in here. I’m used to chatter while I work, and all you hero types are the stoic, silent ones right now. I need some _noise_.”

For a moment, he saw beneath the strong mask the young scientist in front of him projected, and realized his assessment _was_ right: there normally were far more people working with her, here. Slowly, hesitantly, he began his account of his early days as Spiderman, feeling ashamed of what now felt like meager steps, surrounded as he was by the results of her genius, even as she worked on a suit that far outstripped his own. But then she started interjecting, asking questions about why he did thing the way he had, and as the two got into a technical discussion, he was surprised to find her actually impressed by some of his more…unorthodox…solutions, and by his chemical dabbling to get the web fluid just right.

“You certainly made the most of what you had. You know, when you all get back, I may need to have you out here again. Or at least, help me get the outreach center in Oakland running. I’ve got some ideas I want to run by you—ideas that _some_ people here are too cowardly to try,” she added with a teasing glare at one of the other workstations, though its emptiness sobered her a half-second later.

She thrust the suit into his hands. “I’ve repaired all the structural and system damages and made sure you’re linked into the COM network I’m setting up for everyone. Anything else will have to wait until next time.”

With that, she firmly ushered him out of the lab, but it was not lost on him that twice now she had spoken of their return in terms of ‘when’ not ‘if’.

He could only hope.

* * *

Is anything lonelier than the night before a hopeless battle?

The preparations that needed to be done—at least, that _could_ be done—had been seen to, tomorrow morning the final assembly would gather, and Thor would use his magic weapon to open a pathway to Thanos. And then?

Who knew.

After Shuri’s lab, Peter had broken away for a little solitude and still sat perched on the rooftop he’d climbed to, staring out over an incredible vista, but seeing none of it. The sun was slowly sinking, painting Wakanda a million impossible colors, but all Peter saw was a tiny New York apartment with three people inside, trying their best to keep each other safe, all three alone in this horrible new reality. Or else, he saw an empty and dead planet, felt his throat burn with ash and tears—

“Trying to give us all another heart attack?”

Peter whirled, surprised that the voice had been his first clue someone was approaching (normally, his heightened senses picked up footfalls, etc., but he _had_ been distracted), and that the voice belonged to Captain America—who then sat down beside him, feet dangling over the edge, staring out over the field that Peter only just now realized had been the sight of earth’s battle against Thanos.

After a moment, the older hero, also dressed in civilian clothes, kept talking. “If one of the Dora Milaje hadn’t seen you come up here, Rhodey would probably be freaking out about your second disappearing act in a single day.”

Peter glanced away, ashamed he’d caused people to worry—let alone twice—but also surprised that there was anyone here who’d miss him in the chaotic bustle of war preparations. “I—needed some air,” he managed at last.

The captain nodded. “Figured as much. I told him I’d check on you in a few hours if you hadn’t come down.”

“Why?”

He hadn’t meant to ask, but it had slipped out while he stared at the legend beside him. For a long while, Cap just looked at him with an inscrutable expression. “It’s what a team does.”

“But I’m not—” Peter began, then stopped, afraid of how finishing that statement would come across. He rephrased. “I’d told him I wasn’t ready. I was staying small-time. I’m not import—”

This time, it was Captain America who cut him off. “Yes, you are. And you’re here, so you’re an Avenger now.”

The words triggered a memory, and he had to look down, out—anywhere other than the man beside him. “Captain—”

“Steve,” came the correction. When he looked up, surprised, Cao gave a lopsided grin. “I’m not actually all that big on rank. And now that you are one of us, you can call me—”

“Friend Rogers!”

The two turned to see Thor had joined them on the roof. Cap started to stand. “Thor, did you need—”

The god of thunder sat on Captain America’s other side. “Just needed to get away from…” a handwave indicated everything of the chaos below, and the two already on the roof nodded their understanding, even as Peter mused it might get crowded up here soon, unless people started seeking out their own rooftops.

Thor seemed to notice the boy for the first time, leaning around Steve to acknowledge the teen. “Hello. Sorry, I never caught your name—there are a lot more of us than when I left.”

“I’m Peter,” he answered. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Spiderman.”

The Asgardian nodded, filing the information away, trying to place all the newcomers. “Ah. Then you work with Scott—Ant-Man?”

Peter shrugged. “This would be the first time—I’m kinda new here. Newer than anyone else, I think. The names are just a coincidence.”

“Ant-man, Spiderman, Black Widow,” the captain ticked each name off his fingers. “Scott also mentioned a Wasp.”

“And there was Mantis, so the phenomenon is not limited to earth,” Thor put in, leaning back a little and staring up at the stars as they emerged into the sky.

Peter felt a jolt, a face springing to mind. “She was the one with antennae? Part of the—the—” Why were the names evading him?

“The ones who called themselves Guardians, yes. Rocket’s friends.”

Peter pulled his feet up, wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees, unable to tear his mind away from the dead planet. “She seemed…sweet. Like a kid, almost.”

“She was an idiot. They all were.”

Three heads turned to peer past Thor to take in the furry form of Rocket coming to join the party. “And naïve? The girl would believe anything anyone told her. We took her in because there’s no way she’d survive on her own in an uncaring universe. She has literally zero survival skills.” For all he was bad-mouthing one of his teammates, there was no vitriol in his expression, though he feigned it in his tone. “She and Drax got along great—what with him being so literal and never doing anything but charging head-on. Guy was all muscle, no brain. He actually thought _Quill_ was the smartest guy on the team. That knucklehead! All music and references that nobody gets, joking about everything instead of taking it seriously. And Gamora—always poking her nose into everybody’s business, like it was her job to _mother_ us or somethin’…”

His rant had been gradually losing its energy, and he appeared unable to even mention the final member of his team. “They were all idiots,” he concluded in a tiny, choked voice. “But they were _my_ idiots.”

The four sat in silence. No one offered any ‘we might get them back’. That was a small hope hinging on the small chance they could actually beat Thanos, a possibility that seemed remote, even unreachable in that dark night above the too-empty battlefield.

Is there anything lonelier than the night before a hopeless battle?

* * *

_Ned, if you’re getting this message… I’m sorry. …I really don’t know what else to say._

_We tried, I swear. I tried to bring them back. But this Thanos guy is strong. Hopefully, we at least set him back enough that he won’t do anything like this again. Even if he does stay away, I know things are well, shit, right now. And I don’t think the world we knew will come back. But you’re smart, man. You’ll make it. Just, please—_

_I know I don’t have grounds to ask this after I didn’t save—but please, please, look after May. I know she’ll take you in, but she needs someone to take care of her, too. If you’re getting this, I can’t. So, please…_

_And thank you. Thank you for being my Man in the Chair. And my friend—my best friend. I’m sorry for all the crap I’ve dragged you into over the years, but I’m glad I had you by my side. There just aren’t—I don’t know what to—_

_Just keep living, okay?_

_….._

_MJ…_

_I’m sorry about prom? I’m sorry about a lot of things, honestly._

_I don’t honestly know how I ended up with you as a friend, but I’m glad I did and sorry it took so long. I wasted a lot of time._

_If you’re getting this, we failed. We failed, and we can’t fix the world, so things are going to be so wrong for a long time. But you’re strong—please, help Ned and May to stay strong, too. And you can ask them for help, when you need it. You don’t have to stand alone all the time._

_(Oh, and if Flash ever gets up to his old shit, give him hell for me, okay? You know, with your patented MJ flair.)_

_….._

_Aunt May…_

_(Oh, God, I can’t do this…)_

_I’m sorry—for everything, I am so, so sorry! All the trouble I’ve been, all the worry I caused, all the times I disobeyed or lied to you. I should have been there for you more, should have helped you more._

_Everything good about who I am today is because of what you taught me and how you raised me—and I’m so sorry about the rest. There is so much I owe to you, so much I should’ve done for you instead of going galivanting across the galaxy._

_But I have to believe there was a chance to fix this. We had to try. I didn’t mean to leave you alone. I love you so much._

_Please stay alive._

_I love you._

_….._

Peter turned off the recording, then jumped as the door opened behind him.

It was Col. Rhodes entering, and the older man took in the tear-streaked face before him with no trace of judgement. “Kid, you don’t have to come. You’ve got people waiting for you,” he said, with a gesture at the computer on which he’d been allowed to record his ‘just in case’ messages, along with any of the other heroes who still had people to leave them for. “You’ve got years ahead of you—”

“In what kind of a world?” Peter shot back, surprised at the vehemence in his tone. “My two best friends are orphans, now, _and I know what that’s like_. If there’s even a chance I can bring their families back—Mr. Stark—Happy— _anyone_ —then I have to try!”

_Spare the boy, and I will give you what you want…_

_With great power…_

_It had to be this way…_

_…comes great responsibility._

_…We’re in the endgame now._

_He gave up the Time Stone for me. There has to be a reason, or at least something I can do to make it right._

Col. Rhodes didn’t say anything more, but gestured for Peter to follow him to where the remaining heroes were assembling, clearly unhappy, but at least understanding now, if only a little.


	5. 'Once More Into the Breach'

There’d been some discussion about formations and tactics—since Thor’s axe should be able to transport them right to the first planetoid they thought Thanos was on (albeit not instantaneously, even the Bifrost would have to take nearly a minute to cross the universe), they’d arrive in the same positions as when they left, so they had at least a moment to consider it.

The discussion had been complicated by one final arrival the night before: a woman calling herself Captain Marvel, who’d gotten a long-distance summons from Nick Fury himself before he disappeared. Combining her space-traveling experience with what Nebula had already told them, they were able to narrow three options down to two for finding Thanos, and adding her not-inconsiderable power to their strike force was a last-minute morale boost, at the very least.

Finally, some semblance of order had been reached, with a sense of ‘ranged fighters here, close range here, those that can do both here,’ but loosely, as where Thanos would be and what resistance he would or could muster in the first few minutes of the attack (when they threw everything they had at him in hopes to take him down and out before he could counter), were unknown factors at that moment.

Peter found himself standing with Nebula on one side of him, Clint on the other with Natasha standing beside the archer. They weren’t that far from the front, where Col. Rhodes, Captain America, Bruce Banner, M’Baku, Okoye, and Captain Marvel stood around Thor, who had Rocket perched on one shoulder and raised his axe skyward with the other arm.

Impossible colors surrounded them, there was the sensation of movement—or rather, that everything around him was moving while he was standing still, and, for a moment that stretched to a minute, Peter found it hard to breathe.

There had been some attempt by those who’d traveled via Bifrost before (which was to say, Bruce, Thor and Rocket) to warn the others what the sensation was like, but words failed to capture the disorienting power of the innocuously-named ‘Rainbow Bridge’.

As abruptly as it began, it was over, and those that recovered first could see, just over the rise they’d landed on was a single small hut, with a too-familiar, imposing figure in front of it, standing still and staring at the pitiable excuse of an army that had just landed on his doorstep, pissed off and ready to show him just how ‘grateful’ the universe truly was.

With a single roar from every throat, every Avenger leapt forward into battle—the final battle.

* * *

For the element of surprise to guarantee success, you had to get your target from behind, Natasha decided. They had caught Thanos off-guard, at least at first, but he recovered far too quickly for their initial assault to secure victory immediately.

The one thing keeping them alive was that, as Thor had said, the Gauntlet seemed to have sustained massive damage from the Snap, and after using it a single time, Thanos relied on his own not-inconsiderable strength to fight back the assembled heroes that got close.

However, that single use had been to use the blue stone—the Space Stone, Thor had called it—to open a portal and summon the fragment of his army that remained to battle on his behalf. They were different species, and their numbers nowhere near what they’d been in Wakanda, but each still fought with the same mindless determination that was only ended in death, making it a slog to get anywhere near the Mad Titan, much less fight him.

It almost became mechanical, after a point, but the one time Natasha let herself scan the field, she paid for it. Before she could locate anyone in the chaotic frenzy, she was hit from behind with some sort of electrical weapon blast and fell still alive and fully awake, but (hopefully) temporarily paralyzed.

* * *

Nat was down.

The thought crossed his mind in a moment, and the archer halted his reckless forward charge to stand by the closest thing to family he had left, keeping the horde off of her until she could recover—if she would. No, no time to think about that—only fight.

As much as he could, Clint was using his bow as a two-handed, close range weapon, having learned too often that, no matter how many arrows he brought, it was ultimately a limited supply. After all, this looked to be turning into a long fight. Every now and again, if there was a lull around him and he spotted someone in trouble further away, he’d loose a single arrow to their aid—and not for the first time, the incongruous, fanciful thought crossed his mind that, if he were an archer in a movie, he wouldn’t run out of arrows ever, until or unless the plot demanded he did.

Ammunition gripes aside, he continued splitting his focus between his own immediate vicinity, and the half-dozen other fights strung out across the field between him and Thanos’ own battle (who with even Hawkeye couldn’t tell). He saw the blue-space-cyborg girl a ways down the hill, fighting two monsters while a third charged in from the side, and Clint nocked an arrow, taking aim on the easy target.

As he prepared to fire, he realized he, too, was being charged at from the side. He released the shot before turning and firing at the other comer, but while his foe was dead, its momentum remained unchecked, and the behemoth crashed into him, bulling him to the ground and pinning him under what felt like a half-ton of alien carcass.

* * *

Nebula didn’t see where the arrow came from, and didn’t particularly care, but she did appreciate where it went: right into the eye of the creature about turn her current fight from difficult to impossible.

Her twin swords were still flashing, despite the sheen of various shades of blood coating them. She was still nowhere near her father, and a frustrated scream tore from her throat at the enemy-choked field between her and the true target of her rage.

Releasing what tenuous grasp on sanity she had, she dispatched the two she was still fighting and began her head-long charge again, cutting down any of Thanos’ army that dared stand in her path, not caring for the many wounds she accumulated as she roared and charged.

Without realizing, her wordless scream had taken form, form as the only word that mattered to her at the moment repeated over and over as her technological and organic parts were sliced, torn, and bitten by the hoard that now completely surrounded her: “GAMORA!”

Her forward progress was checked again, but her swords kept dancing, and she kept screaming.

“GAMORA!”

With a _snap_ , one of her metal legs gave, and she was down on one knee, but she kept fighting.

“GAMORA!”

Fangs sank into her left shoulder, deadening that arm, but she killed that creature, and one just behind it.

“GAMORA!”

Something hit her from behind and she fell forward, final cry muffled by the dirt that filled her mouth, but just as she lost consciousness, another voice took it up and added to it as the sound of a weapon firing continuously filled the background.

“GAMORA! QUILL! MANTIS! DRAX! GROOT! THEY WERE MY IDIOTS YOU BASTARD! I’M GONNA KILL YOU!”

* * *

All the Guardians were crazy—anyone who met them, let alone worked with them for a single mission, even—could tell you that. Each occupant of that ship had their own approach to, claim on, and flavor of insanity, but the bizarre mix of personalities on the team ensured that, when one got out of hand, or took a swan dive off the cliff of relative sanity that particular individual dwelt on, the others would be there to pull them back, keep them in check, or, at the very least, run damage control.

But not anymore.

Now Rocket was the only one left, with no one left to pull him back, and no real reason to even want anyone to. He was a two-foot tall, silver-furred, curse-spewing demon of death, and no one on that planetoid could keep pace with him, much less keep him under control.

His small size helped him evade many of the larger aliens Thanos had summoned to fight back the Avengers and their allies, but as he was not actively even thinking about dodging, it was only a matter of time before a stray kick, then a back-handed swing disarmed him and sent him flying into a bolder, doing what none of the other heroes remaining could: stopping the damn raccoon.

* * *

Rhodey was a part of the aerial-support squad.

No, he _was_ the aerial-support squad.

Without the Falcon, Vison, or Stark, he was the only hero remaining who fought predominantly from the air, thus it fell to him to lay down cover fire, read the enemy’s pattern from a bird’s-eye view, and quickly get to the other fighters who needed him most. Just when he thought there wasn’t a way to miss the fallen any more, tactics and logistics had to go and prove him wrong.

Still, there was no time for grief or regret, there was a job to do, and now he was the only one there to do it.

As his view and approach was, by necessity, wider and more general, he couldn’t afford to seek out particular allies to aid or protect, so as much as some instinct told him to keep an eye on the kid, he knew he couldn’t do it—Tony had trusted Peter enough to invite him to be a part of the Avengers once before, now Rhodey had to trust his friend’s judgment and the kid’s skills to keep Spiderman in one piece while they each did their part.

He couldn’t be everywhere at once—and it was beginning to tell. One by one, they were falling, though the army was being decimated as well. At the rate they were going, they would defeat the hoard, but there wouldn’t be anyone left to fight Thanos afterwards. They were losing.

Almost as the thought crossed his mind, a stray shot from below—one knocked astray, not even aimed at him—hit the suit, and the too-familiar sensation of falling heralded the end of any air support for that battle.

He was still conscious upon landing, the improved suit having taken most of the impact, but before he could regain his feet and rejoin the battle, he was dog-piled by several of the remaining aliens, tearing and biting at the metal in an attempt to get to him.

* * *

Carol Danvers was new to the group, true, but she was hardly new to fighting, or to her powers, though Thanos had never crossed her path.

He was coming to regret doing it now.

Captain Marvel and Thor had been the first two to make it to the Mad Titan, with Bruce (still in the Hulk Buster suit) and Captain America just behind them. Still, Thanos was holding his own. Four-on-one had been a bit much without use of the Gauntlet, but a pack of wolf-like beasts the size of tigers had leapt on the metal behemoth that housed Bruce Banner and started shredding it, forcing Thor to go to the aid of the scientist, and leaving the two Captains to tag-team against the Titan.

Still, the purple bastard was remarkably resilient, if desperate, and while Carol and Steve could hold him back, without something to tip the balance, they couldn’t take him down on their own.

Before they could decide what that was, they found out just how desperate Thanos was, as he used the Gauntlet for only the second time since the battle began: calling forth a purple blast from the Power Stone that knocked her several yards back, winded and disoriented, leaving Captain Rogers facing the giant on his own.

* * *

Steve had a half-second to register that Captain Marvel had been knocked away and was not immediately getting up, and probably less to note the sounds of protesting metal and wordless roars behind him—Thor still hadn’t gotten all of the aliens off of Bruce, it seemed.

No one else was close enough to lend any aid, it was just him against the Titan who’d killed half the universe. Steve didn’t really think he could beat him after their last encounter in Wakanda, but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try. Thor was still up and fighting, and from the corner of his eye, Steve could see Carol stir. He just had to buy time for more heavy hitters to join the fight.

He only just noted or thought any of that, when a giant purple fist slammed into his side, and with a ‘crack’ something gave that felt suspiciously like bone. Before he could recover, the Gauntleted hand caught him a back-handed blow that knocked him several yards away, leaving the Titan unencumbered for the first time since the battle began.

* * *

Bruce had never been what anyone would call ‘fond’ of the Hulk, even after the events of New York, the first time he’d turned and not been immediately rejected. There’d been an understanding after that point, he’d felt, but still he hated to relinquish control, and after the Scarlet-Witch induced rampage, they’d fallen completely out, leading to the longest two years of his life, if he’d been aware of them.

Things had spiraled pretty quickly after that, landing the two back into the power struggle from the Hulk’s first days, and then this—

In the strangest reversal the scientist had ever faced, he _wanted_ the Hulk to come, and he would not. Even now, under the weight of who knew how many enemies, with the Hulk Buster suit threatening to crush or trap him, there wasn’t even an echo of the giant green monster who would’ve been _really helpful_ right now!

Part of the helmet was ripped away, which was terrifying, but gave him his first real view of the fight in several minutes, just in time to see both Captains go down and Thor glance over at the now opponent-less Thanos. Bruce looked around, saw they were down to three aliens themselves and yelled to Thor: “I got it from here—go!”

The Asgardian hesitated a second, but the sight of Thanos striding towards the nearest knot of fighters, fist raised, decided him.

Now alone, in a half-destroyed suit and with no chance of backup from the Hulk, Bruce turned his attention to the three beasts still clawing their way through the armor, mind racing to come up with even the shred of a plan.

* * *

Thor heard the sound he’d long ago come to associate with Stark’s weaponry firing behind him, though louder and more sustained than the inventor’s precise, strategic blasts, and could only hope that Banner had truly found a way to extricate himself—or at least, defend himself.

As much as it cut him to the core to leave one more person behind—risk losing even one person more—he knew he had only one chance to end this.

As Thor ran, he restrained the battle cry that was desperate to tear forth, concentrating on the Titan whose back was to him, and hearing a too-familiar voice in his mind, speaking with half-feigned exasperation.

_“Subtlety is entirely lost on you, brother, but do consider for a moment that, should you actually ever try to catch a foe off-guard, some measure of care should be taken not holler, ‘I am coming for you’ at the very top of your lungs.”_

The words were from a happier time, but all his mind’s-eye saw was a struggling form in the Titan’s grasp that he hadn’t been able to save.

He heeded the warning, held his tongue, and swung his axe forward—going for the head this time—

And Thanos turned, catching it with a twisted smirk. “No second chances.”

Repeated blows, no chance to counter and then—the sensation of flying, so different from being under his own power.

_I’m sorry, Loki. You always were better at surprise attacks._

* * *

Thanos stood still, surveying the once-empty field, now littered with the corpses of his army and the dead, unconscious, or otherwise-immobilized forms of the group that had dared to attack him.

A rumble of disappointment or anger started in his chest—even now, were there those that didn’t understand what he’d been aiming for: what he had accomplished?

“This was a pointless attack,” he said at last, unable to stop himself, even if there were none to hear or heed him. “The battle was over—all you had to do was go home and enjoy life in the universe I gave to you. Don’t you understand that I saved you? No more fights, no more problems. Can you not see—”

“No.”

He hadn’t been expecting a response, and turned to see one of the fallen forms stand—ah, yes. The small one from Titan. The one he had spared. The boy had come back, even knowing he could die—that he would?

Peter stood, albeit unsteadily after some of the hits he had taken, and he wasn’t sure exactly why he was talking instead of fighting, but something about the smug way that Thanos was talking about ‘saving’ and ‘enjoying life’ just sickened him. “I don’t understand.” He wished he sounded more like an awesome hero and less like a terrified kid, but Thanos had stopped and was staring at him, which was as close to an invitation to lay into him as Peter was going to get, so he did what some claimed Spiderman did best: he talked.

“I don’t understand,” he repeated. “I don’t understand why you really did all this. It wasn’t to save the universe or anything like that. If the universe really was running out of resources, and if that Gauntlet really is all-powerful, wouldn’t it have been easier to just double the number of resources? Or re-distribute them so everyone has enough? Because killing people just makes it worse—the infrastructure needed to get the resources to the survivors have been decimated, and people are still dying and you haven’t saved a single damn person, and anyone who even thought of this plan for a single second would’ve known this was how it would turn out, so if you still went through with it, you couldn’t have actually wanted to _save_ anyone!

“So, I don’t understand what you were actually trying to get—was it power? But no, you came out here to a god-forsaken, glorified asteroid instead of ruling anything, so it wasn’t for a throne at least. The only thing I can think of was that you _just wanted to kill people_. And I don’t understand. I’ll never understand that. I’ll never understand what kind of sick bastard gets satisfaction from knowing they now have the highest kill count in the history of the universe, or from the suffering of the survivors. And I’ll certainly _never_ understand who does all that, and then demands _gratitude_ from the people he didn’t kill.

“I. Don’t. Understand.”

Thanos stared at the boy, stopped in his tracks, blind and deaf to all else around him. Of course, the child was too young to understand—surely he was just flailing out blindly in the dark—he, Thanos, had often wrestled with this conundrum in his mind, and every time, came to the same conclusion: this was the right thing to do because…because…because it was right, and he knew it was right! He wasn’t cruel, he was merciful. He didn’t kill, he spared. He wasn’t a monster, he was…he was a god!

How dare this mere infant, this insignificant _speck_ question him, and dare tell him that this was for power or pleasure? Just because he did, eventually, enjoy it, surely that wasn’t the reason—no, of course it wasn’t. To save the universe, he had to eliminate half the population, it was simple math. It was what had to be done, and he was the only one who could see that, much less do that—

Heedless of the Titan’s crises of identity and faith, three individuals hauled themselves up first, even as many more across the field began to stir in the lull they’d been granted by Peter’s distraction.

Steve Rogers hurled his shield (a hasty recreation Shuri had whipped up in between battles, but nearly indistinguishable from the original) into Thanos’ left shoulder, damaging the un-Gauntleted arm, Carol Danvers fired a blast from where she stood, focusing on the Gauntlet itself and shattering the already-weakened metal, and Thor dove in, axe in hand—

And finally, finally, hit the head he aimed for.

* * *

Later, when they had time to think about it, several Avengers grumbled that it had been anti-climactic how Thanos had dropped, dead, after the hit from Storm-Breaker, but that was in the quiet, restored hours when desperation and terror had given way to only half-meant mutterings.

The more immediate concern, in that instant, was the fact that the Infinity Gauntlet had been destroyed, but the Stones had not, and they tumbled loosely over the ground, freed from their housings. Those who were close by—or had worked their way close during Peter’s speech—lunged for them instinctively, knowing that, if the stones were lost, ultimately, so was the universe, still.

Steve was the closest, and the blue stone that, in another life time, had cost the soldier so much seemed to bounce straight into his hand. The familiar red stone, so different in this form, now, came to rest in Thor’s grasp as he dove for it, while Bruce pulled himself out of the ruined suit just in time to catch the purple stone that he’d seen in action on the refugee ship.

Clint didn’t recognize the yellow stone he scooped up at first, but he recognized the feel of it—Like an echo of one of Vision’s blast, or the searing un-making of the scepter, and he held it tighter against the urge to fling it away. Nat had no idea of the significance of the orange stone she grabbed, or what it normally cost to hold such a power—but then, hadn’t everyone lost someone in this reality that shouldn’t have been?

The green stone fell to Peter, who seized it without thinking, really, of what was coming next. Instead, he remembered a different alien world, and what had been lost or traded for the tiny scrap he now held in his hand.

Six Stones—six powers—six parts of a whole nearly too terrible and too strong to comprehend—and six bearers, seemingly random, simply in the right place and time. Yet each, though they could never afterwards put into words, felt that they had been pulled or drawn to ‘their’ stone, and the way the purportedly non-sentient stones bounced or rolled seemed to indicate that they, too, had been tugged in those directions, towards those Avengers. Six stones—six bearers—six hands closing in the same instant.

A shock rolled over the fields, stunning the other heroes only just pulling themselves up, and pulling the six away from all awareness of anything but the Stones, their power, and the others holding a part of Infinity.

All that could be felt was overwhelming power, even identity faded, for a second, in the all-erasing energy of the Six, but the same desire in six hearts—to set all to right—tipped the scales back into tenuous balance, and six connected but unique Minds and Souls reached for the Power to bend Space and Time in order to return Reality to what it should be.

At first, it seemed to work, the great energy gathered, preparing to surge outward in response to the force of will applied to it, but then—

_Toll._

The knowledge was almost a voice—an insistence they neither felt or head, but _knew_ all the same: for every use of this concord, to use all Six at once as One, there was a cost. The Orange stone flickered greedily, its tendrils flickering against all six, seeking its satisfaction before the storm could be unleashed—the universe would be bought with one more life, or the building storm would destroy the broken fragments that remained.

_Spare the boy, and I will give you what you want…It had to be this way._

_Had to be this way…had to be this way...spare the boy...had to be this way…_

Of course—that was it, wasn’t it? The whole reason he’d survived was so that he could keep the promise he lived to make to Ned, May, and MJ—that he’d bring back the half of the universe that’d been stolen away. That was what Strange had seen in the one time they won, wasn’t it? This was why he’d known this was where he had to be, what he had to do—

_No._

It wasn’t the voice of Infinity, but it held as much authority and insistence.

_Not him—me._

If Peter was still receiving any sensations from his eyes, they’d have fixed on Captain America, wide with surprise. As it was, the shock he felt rippled through the other four—and the Six as well.

_The world has more than enough defenders, now—_

Who or what was being addressed was unclear, but somehow, in this blending, this confusing not-reality that was all that existed, all five others knew what the other part of their whole was getting at.

_—it needs rebuilders._

Orange tendrils reached out, grew thicker, flared, then six was five and the power couldn’t be held back, controlled, or even directed: it burst forth, touching every point in existence at once, searing burning, destroying—

**Undoing.**


	6. 'All Will Be Well'

At once, there was a twist, a jerk, a stomach-churning sense of impossibly swift movement then—nothing. Stillness.

When sight and reality returned, everyone who’d made the journey to Thanos’ final planetoid was standing on the Wakandan field, right as they’d been before Thor raised his axe to send them forth. Everyone—whether or not they’d fallen in that final, desperate battle—was standing there as if the battle had never happened, not an injury on them, but with the full memory of what had occurred out there.

Well, almost everyone.

Steve’s spot by Thor was conspicuously empty; for the moment, that was their only proof those hours had actually happened, in at least one timeline.

Eventually, in the hours, days, and weeks to come, they put together what kind of miracle, exactly, had been wrought with the Infinity Stones. Time had rewound, in a sense, to the instant just before the Snap, returning those who’d dissolved, as well as sparing any accident victims, or anyone who’d died—by any means—since half the universe had vanished. But as much as matter was now untouched by the events that never were, mind and memory, across the universe, still were. Those who’d vanished remembered it, those who’d survived remembered days that no longer existed. Only Thanos’ army remained gone—not even a corpse behind, though the field was still torn and blood-stained.

They never could fully explain why, for those who’d gone to assault Thanos, they’d all ended up back in Wakanda instead of wherever they’d been before the Snap, but eventually, they drew the conclusion that it had something to do with their proximity to the ‘center of the storm’ as it were, and perhaps even the part each of them had played in causing it.

The Stones themselves had not traveled back with the Avengers, nor where they on the battlefield where they would’ve been before Thanos used them. Whether being used twice so closely together for so contradictory a pair of purposes had destroyed them or scattered them through the universe once more was not known, and eventually, some who were on earth but did not count it home would go out in search of them, and of a safe place to hide them so that no one could use them again (or, in one case, used to bring back a certain android).

But those were realizations and concerns for later, when reality as a whole picked themselves up, dusted themselves off, and got back to the business of going on. At that moment, though, the Avengers found their attention split between Steve’s empty space, and the figures that could now be seen leaving the field of desperate battle, making their way towards the assembled crowd, seeking answers.

The two groups stopped some few yards apart, staring at each other, hardly daring to believe and not being able to understand just what had occurred.

The spell was broken at last as Shuri, who’d emerged from the palace, pelted past Peter, Thor, and the others and flung herself into her brother’s arms. The dam broken, the two groups moved together, embracing and calling out tear-filled greetings.

* * *

Dozens of reunions happened at once across that field, a mere microcosm of what was happening over and across the universe, but there was hardly one more joyful (or bizarre) as when the raccoon and the sapling found each other in the crowd.

Rocket about bowled over the much-taller Teen Groot, and, for a while, neither could make a sound besides half-choked sobs of relief as they clung to each other, the young tree kneeling, as his legs had given out in the first moments of that embrace.

Without pulling away, Rocket started pounding on the wooden back and scolding as soon as he could speak. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, kid—you punk! Gave your old man a heart attack, you selfish little twig! And another thing: what’s with callin’ me ‘dad’ right before you go up in a flurry of goddamn ash! Hell of a time to drop that bombshell, termite-bait!”

Groot did not respond, beyond clinging tighter to silver-furred figure, all the vitriol stolen from the words by the tears on face and in voice.

“I love ya, kid.”

“We are Groot.”

* * *

Swarmed as he was by sister, general, and (surprisingly enough) M’Baku, there was no way T’Challa could make it back to the city, much less the palace. But Queen Ramonda and Nakia had been making their way out to the field as soon as the let’s-go-kill-Thanos army reappeared, thus the young king did not have to go anywhere for the reunion to be complete.

For a moment, the six-person clump could tune out the rest of the world and revel in the miracle that had returned the Black Panther to the world. Soon enough, responsibility would call them all again—there was a kingdom to reassure, and to run. Wakanda had been granted a reprieve, yes—all the soldiers lost in the Snap were gone no more—but she had not been spared: those killed by conventional means in the battle against Thanos’ army had not been resurrected.

It was not fair that those who’d buried their friends once would have to do so again, and even the added help of the new survivors and returned heroes would do little to salve that wound. But it seemed that not even the Infinity Stones would or could undo all the sorrow that the Mad Titan had wrought upon the universe.

* * *

And even their power came with a cost—a toll.

It’d fallen to Rhodey to find Sam and Bucky in the crowd, both searching, scanning with ever-increasing dread and desperation for Steve.

He’d drawn them to the side, but found that he could not give them all the answers they needed: all those on the outside had been able to see was the six grab the stones, starting a swarm of light, colors, and teeth-rattling power and energy. Then orange light shad coalesced around Steve before he disappeared and the universe reset.

Col. Rhodes had fumbled through this story—he couldn’t really call it an explanation—and the two were still staring at him, wordlessly asking him to make sense of it, when Natasha joined the three and filled in what he could not: the Stones’ demand for another life in order to set all to right.

Sam had looked away, jaw clenched and face set, saying and showing nothing. Bucky had been much more expressive, pacing and cursing his friend’s selfless idiocy. They let him, knowing there was nothing they could say or do to make this better: some things couldn’t be fixed or glossed over, and only be gone through.

Rhodey glanced at Natasha, noticing an absence in the crowd behind them. “Clint?” Then, hoping the answer was what he thought it just might be, “Scott?”

There it was: a flicker of a smile that spoke of joy and sorrow mingling in this new aftermath. “They grabbed the nearest phones, then took the Quinjet. I opted not to stop them. I just hope Clint remembers to drop Scott off first, before going home.”

* * *

He did—of _course_ he did, Natasha: he wasn’t about to deny the other father the same reunion he was desperate for.

That being said, Scott was _barely_ off the jet before Clint was taking off again, leaning forward as if that could encourage the craft to any greater speed as he made his way to the coordinates he knew so well.

He landed at last and flung himself out of the craft and up the stairs of the porch with the urgency of desperation, suddenly terrified that the voices he’d heard on the phone had been some cruel trick of a hope-starved mind.

But before he could even reach for the door, it flew open, and two small forms threw themselves into his arms, their mother just behind them, baby Nathaniel in her arms. The family of five didn’t move for the longest time as they just held each other on that porch, Clint clinging to his family—his anchor—his lifeline.

* * *

Peter couldn’t really blame the archer for not thinking of taking the boy back to New York when he and Scott left—to say the two fathers had other things on their minds was putting it so lightly it verged on flippancy. And there would be other people making their way out of Wakanda soon enough: it wasn’t like he was stranded for good, or even for long.

Just—if he couldn’t _get_ to May, Ned, and MJ soon, could he call them, at least? Could someone help him find out if Ned and MJ got their families back? And let them know he was okay—he was back? Please?

But who could he go to? Who could he ask? Rhodey was busy off to one side, Steve was gone, and Clint had taken off. Nebula was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Thor, and the teen found himself alone and feeling more than a little out of place.

He was just looking for another roof to climb to when a sparking golden circle appeared in thin air, just to the side of the assembled crowd. The center rippled, then revealed an arid, alien landscape behind a cluster of figures stepping through.

Peter froze, staring and hardly daring to believe what he saw, even as Rocket and a tree-looking thing charged the main bulk of them, the raccoon yelling insults he clearly didn’t mean to the three returning Guardians. The last one through the portal was the wizard, surveying the field with the eye of one who’d seen it all before, which Peter supposed he _had_ , at least once, but just in front of Dr. Strange, his armor nearly destroyed, face covered in grime and blood of that desperate, ultimately fruitless, battle was none other than Mr. Stark.

The inventor scanned the staring crowd, noting his fellow Avengers, but not lingering on them. Then his gaze fell on Peter and he visibly relaxed, crossing to him when it became clear that the boy couldn’t force himself to move any closer. The older hero held Peter by the shoulders, looking him up and down, taking in the repaired suit and the lack of any injuries he’d taken on Titan, then pulled him into a hug that caught the teen off-guard.

“I’m sorry—” Peter tried to start.

“Don’t.” The single word rang with finality, whispered though it was, and the normally talkative Spiderman held his tongue even as he failed to hold back his tears.

_Gone. Slipped through his fingers._

Back.

* * *

It was late.

Peter wasn’t sure _how_ late, exactly, but he didn’t particularly care, at the moment. He’d just realized that there were a few people missing from the large meeting room where everyone was comparing notes and stories and trying to figure out just what had happened. Thor kept slipping in and out, though no one really remarked on that. Sam Wilson was sticking it out, but Bucky Barnes had excused himself pretty quickly. Some had looked around for Wanda, but Natasha had firmly insisted the girl be given some space and time.

But Peter knew there was one more person missing that no one else seemed to notice: Nebula.

Making his muttered excuses to Mr. Stark and Col. Rhodes, Peter slipped out to look for the girl who’d saved his life back on Titan.

_Gamora lived here. With her friends. I didn’t._

_Thanos took her life, I will take his. Alone._

He found her at last, not far from where all the reunions had occurred, as if she hadn’t moved for the whole day. Maybe she hadn’t.

Wordlessly, he sat beside her. She didn’t turn or acknowledge him, but he had the feeling he hadn’t exactly snuck up on her. In fact, he’d made it a point to make noise—some people it did not do to startle.

“I will not go inside.”

Peter nodded after Nebula broke the silence. “Ok.” Then: “It is a nice night.”

The answering snort indicated something like disagreement, but without any force behind it. Quiet closed in around them again, and still they stared out, not looking at each other. “I won’t go inside, no matter how long you sit there.”

“That’s not why I’m here.” He could practically _feel_ her surprise and apprehension at that, but then malaise washed all the tension from her, and left her question flat.

“Why, then?”

Peter paused to search for the words. “Like I said before: not alone.”

Nebula leaned back, looking up at the stars she once traveled between. “Maybe I like being alone.”

“No.”

With a sense of déjà vu, Nebula turned to look at the teen beside her. “No?” She asked at last, amazed he could still surprise her.

Peter shrugged. “You stayed here to attack with us, instead of trying on your own. You saved my life on Titan, instead of just leaving me there. And, despite me not leaving you alone right now, you haven’t killed me yet.”

“Tempting,” she drawled, but without any threat behind it and Peter felt he’d won the point. “I wanted Thanos dead, and now he is. There is no more reason to—”

“Don’t,” Peter cut in, surprised at how much it’d come out like Mr. Stark. “Don’t say it, don’t even _think_ it. There’s always a reason. Always.”

Nebula gave a cynical chuckle. “Not. Always. Perhaps if Gamora had lived, but probably not. She chose the Guardians over me a long time ago. I am alone, and always have been.”

“No, you’re not. I’m right here. And everyone in there that helped defeat Thanos knows how much we owe to you. If you need a goal, a place to crash, someone to listen, _some_ thing, you just have to ask. Hell, May would make you up a bed on the couch in a heartbeat if you came to New York. And that’s before she finds out how much you’ve done for us.”

Silence again, as she stared at him in disbelief. “Does everyone here care this much for near-total strangers, or are you just particularly friendly?” she asked at last in a tone of amazement and confusion.

“Jury’s still out,” Peter admitted, shrugging, “and MJ would probably say I’m too naïve, but we’ve all got our own reasons for donning whatever suit we wear.”

Nebula didn’t answer at first, but some tension drained out of the silence, then Peter thought he heard her mumble, ‘…like this MJ person…’ and had the admittedly terrifying mental image of those two meeting. MJ learning how to dual-wield swords… _that_ would definitely make prom interesting. Hm, maybe bringing Nebula back to New York wasn’t actually such a bad idea…

Before he could stumble any further down that daunting mental rabbit-hole, there was a flash of orange light behind them and a muted ‘whompf’ that had the two spinning to see two figures standing where no one had been a half second before.

Nebula was on her feet, reaching for her weapons, even as the woman stepped forward. “Sister,” the stranger said in a kind tone, reaching out a hand.

His companion was frozen, trembling, but she managed to force the name out: “Gamora…”

Suddenly the newcomer surged forward, wrapping her arms around the blue cyborg, and Peter couldn’t tell which of them was crying—maybe both. Instinctively, he stepped away, letting this moment be for those two alone, and he looked to the other arrival, recognizing him.

“Hey, kid. Turns out there’s a sort of ‘back door’ out of the Soul World Gamora was able to find. Did we do it?”

Peter nodded, unable to verbalize and answer to the question, particularly when he saw the approaching form of Mr. Stark, who must’ve seen the orange flash from inside and come out to investigate.

“Cap?” the inventor asked quietly once he came within hearing range, and Steve turned, looking at the inventor—his friend.

“Stark.”

There was a moment—a heartbeat—of unresolved tension and unspoken words, then it was brushed aside as the two old friends embraced.

They didn’t know what was coming next, but then: no one ever really did. It didn’t matter—the War was over, and the Avengers were together once again, their roster expanded and bonds strengthened. It didn’t matter that they didn’t know, it didn’t even matter what came next.

They’d face it (like the old man said) together.


End file.
